


Halestorm

by cyren2132



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, season 4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-11 18:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2078685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyren2132/pseuds/cyren2132
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rising from the dead was never enough for Peter Hale. And he's not the only one who has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thin Line Between Fear and Fury

He heard the _thwang_. He registered that it was arrow, but the first thing Peter felt was Scott, slamming into him, jerking backward and falling with a grunt. His fangs were out, his eyes blazing before Scott had even hit the ground. He could tell Malia was only a half step behind him while everyone else -- even his own nephew Derek -- stood in silent shock.  
  
But an assassin had just tried to kill him -- again -- and Peter wasn't the sort to let that slide. The archer was still in the loft. It had taken a fraction of a second to pinpoint the location.  
  
Moving quickly, he had the intruder, all pale skin and dark hair, in his grasp. Scott yelled for him stop. To wait. To not. But Peter was never a very good listener. He raised his claws, ready to strike when a roar filled the loft.  
  
Peter dropped his prey and took two steps back, eyes averted, fixed on the dusty floor. His heart pounded. He could feel everything that made him a wolf begin to retreat, and he hated himself for the fear that settled momentarily in his stomach.  
  
Swallowing bile, he looked up, and the fear was replaced with fury. Scott stared at him, a broken, bloody arrow at his feet and eyes burning red. *His* eyes. Peter clenched his fist until his joints cracked and his bones ached. This boy -- this insignificant *child* -- had *his* power, and Peter wanted nothing more than charge over there and take it back.  
  
But he wasn't stupid. Everyone was here. Argent. The banshee. The fox. The idiot Stilinski and his naive sheriff father. Scott's beta -- impossibly young, not without promise, but fiercely loyal to the one who'd bitten him (how nice that must be). Not even Derek would have his back. In time, Peter thought he could make a play for Malia's allegiance, but that time wasn't now. Not yet.  
  
So he unclenched his fist. Let the light in his eyes fade to something unbearably human and dull, and gave a cocky half-smile.  
  
"Sorry," he said with a shrug.  
  
The room was silent. Argent stood at Scott's side, one hand gripping Scott's shoulder, the other holding a weapon limply at his side. Peter could see his throat working, struggling to make words, and Scott, "the true alpha," looked like he could dissolve into tears at any second.  
  
Peter inhaled. The scent of fear-laced confusion was almost palpable. Everybody exuded it. But for half the room there was something else. Shock. Disbelief. And buried beneath it all, almost too slight to detect, was a glimmer of hope and joy. Fairly certain those weren't emotions meant for him, Peter turned his eyes to the assassin, who had backed into a corner and was huddled defenseless against the wall.  
  
Huh.  
  
The girl was back. Scott was the first to speak. More like a whisper.  
  
"Allison."


	2. Name on a list

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malia feels betrayed.

Malia paced outside the door. This wasn't where meant to come when she left the vault, it was just where her feet took her. Maybe it was instinct? But now she was here, feeling like she should either knock or run but unable to make a decision. Every time she tried, her mind went back to that dark basement and the list in her hand.

_ Malia Hale _

Not Malia Tate. Not Malia: Werecoyote. Malia Hale. Like Derek, a man who had yet to impress her, and Peter, a man everybody else told her was evil incarnate. And she was standing outside his door.

The last time she was here, an assassin tried to kill Peter. But not just any assassin. Scott's ex-girlfriend, Chris Argent's daughter. That she was acting as an enemy – sort of, if Scott's pack could be believed – was kind of surprising. 

More surprising: She'd been dead  for two months.

Her father had taken her away. Said he needed to keep her safe and if it was really her, find out how she got back, who brought her back, and if she needed “deprogramming.” Malia didn't really understand that. The Argent girl wasn't a robot. Well, maybe this one was.

Scott protested, but all of the adults convinced him that they should go back to school. Live their lives as normally as possible. In between attempts on their lives. And that was how they got to the PSATs (and another assassin). Malia didn't want to be there. She didn't even want to be at that school, where she knew she didn't belong, but the others told her it was for the best. That she needed to re-integrate into the human world.

She thought they had known best, but deep down, she knew it was wrong. Had they been wrong about Peter, too? Their warnings and their actions fought in her brain. It was almost paralyzing. She could feel the walls of the hallway closing in on her as her breath came in fits. Was this what Stiles' panic attacks felt like?

She squeezed her eyes tightly closed and held her breath until a blue flash radiated behind her eyelids.  A world of smells flooded her nose. Sounds from the street below drowned her. There was something familiar in the distance. She pushed beyond the distractions of Beacon Hills. Cleared her mind of confusing, conflicting thoughts and just listened.

It was a bird, hopping on small legs across a bed of leaves. Chirping happily as it rooted its beak in the foliage, searching for bugs or seeds dropped by careless hikers. It was a sparrow, probably lost from its family.

Too small for good eats.

Malia smiled. It had taken years, but in the woods she had grown to understand and enjoy the clarity and the calmness that nature could bring. She opened her eyes, ready to knock on the door.

It was already open.  Peter Hale leaned against the door frame, one thumbnail running absently across his teeth.

“Are you coming or going?” he asked. His eyes glowed blue. Like hers.

She took a step forward. Peter stepped aside and let her pass into the loft. A brief flicker of fear settled in her stomach as the door clicked shut, but she quickly pushed it away. Maybe her friends were right, and Peter Hale really was the big bad wolf. But she owed it to herself to find out for sure.


	3. Behind Blue Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Malia get to know one another.

“Are you my dad?” 

Malia hadn't meant to blurt it out like that, but there it was.

“That's what the banshee says.”

“The bansh-- LYDIA knows?!” Malia exclaimed, momentarily sidetracked. “Nobody tells me anything.”

“What do you want to know?” Peter rounded the island that separated the kitchen area from the living area and pulled a large knife from a drawer. Malia tensed for a moment, but relaxed as he brought the steel blade down, halving a sandwich. Roast beef, by the smell. 

“Just like that? You're going to answer my questions?”

“The ones I can, sure.”

She couldn't quite believe it. But while suspicion was running deep, h er stomach  was running away with itself, letting forth a  rumble  that probably rivaled any howl she could ever do . She hadn't eaten before the PSAT – too nervous – and nobody was handing out snacks for the medical quarantine. 

She wouldn't have thought being infected with a deadly disease, losing control of her powers, going blind and nearly dying would have been hallmarks for a big appetite, but when Peter slid the plate in her direction and gave a slight nod, she grabbed half the sandwich and hungrily bit into it. It was delicious. She devoured it in three bites while Peter was still chewing his first. He raised an eyebrow at her as she brushed crumbs from her shirt.

“Want another?”

She shook her head. The dryness of the thick bread had started to register.

“Could use something to drink.” 

“I wouldn't trust the tap water here on my laundry, much less my innards, but I've got coffee,” Peter said as he turned and pulled a glass carafe from a small coffee machine. “I've got lukewarm coffee,” he amended.

Malia crinkled her nose at the dark brown liquid.

“That's not cofee.”

“What do you mean it's not coffee; of course it is.” 

“No, I've seen coffee, and it doesn't look like that.” She nodded at the carafe as Peter pulled a mug from the cabinet.

“What you've seen,” he said as he poured, “is an abomination created by people to afraid to order a milkshake for breakfast.” He set the drink down between them, and she reached for it, stopping halfway. She pulled her hand back and listened. His heart beat slow and steady. But that didn't necessarily mean anything. 

“You don't trust me,” he said. 

“Haven't seen a ton of reason to,” she said. “And I've heard plenty of reason not to.”

Peter pursed his lips and nodded as he picked the mug back up. For a moment, she thought he might fling it across the room in anger, spilling its contents all over the cement floor. Instead he brought it to his lips and took four long swigs, setting the empty mug back on the counter with an audible sigh.

“Good stuff, Maynard.”

_ Maynard?  _ Great. Was her psychopathic, homicidal maniac maybe-father also deranged?

“Uh, it's Malia,” she said. Peter laughed. Not a mocking laugh or a polite laugh – just a deep belly-laugh accompanied with a smile that was the exact opposite of everything she'd been told.

“Perhaps a reference that's before your time. Google it, or whatever it is the kids do these days.” He pulled a fresh mug from the cabinet, filled it for her, and took a bite of his sandwich. Malia took the opportunity to examine her drink. It was thin and a deep, dark brown with a strong scent.

She took a sip and winced. It was bitter, and acidic, and nothing like the sugary, chocolatey caramel coffee drinks the others sometimes drank. This, there was something earthy about it, and she gave a small smile as she took another drink. It reminded her of home.

When Peter finished his half of their sandwich, he looked at her.

“You had some questions?”

Right. Questions. She was here for a reason that wasn't eating  Peter Hale's food and drinking his coffee,  and she knew that getting too comfortable in these surroundings could be dangerous .  She meant to ask him about the murders. She meant to ask him about using Lydia to ressurect himself. And oh, yeah,  _ the murders _ . But what came out of her mouth was none of that.

“Why didn't you find me?” she asked. It was a question she didn't even know lived within her until it was released shakily into the wild. And as soon as she asked it, she knew the truth. They had the same hair. The same nose and long fingers. She got the same line between her brow when she was thinking hard about something. 

Peter Hale wasn't just anybody. He wasn't just her maybe-daddy anymore. He was her father. 

“Why did I live with strangers and get lost in the woods *as a coyote* for eight years?” she said. “Why didn't you find me?”

“I don't know,” Peter said. Something like remorse flashed across his face.

“That's not an answer.”

“It's the only one I've got.” Malia opened her mouth to respond, but Peter kept talking. “Did you know werewolves can share memories? I assume all were-creatures are able to, but werewolves certainly can.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“We can also steal them,” Peter said. “My sister took those memories from me. I didn't know you existed until recently. I still don't know who your mother was or why Talia took them – why she *stole you* -- from me. I wish I did, but I don't.”

It was true. Malia could tell.

“Is it true what they say?” she asked.

“What do they – I assume you mean Scott and Stiles and Lydia – say?”

“That you killed a bunch of people in Beacon Hills last winter.”

Malia focused, listening for a blip or slight rise to his heartbeat. Maybe a catch in his breath, or anything that would mean he was lying. None came.

“Yeah, I definitely killed a bunch of people in Beacon Hills last winter.” There was a part of her that wanted to recoil. To get away. But there was another that demanded she sit still, silently, not moving a muscle. That was the part that won. “To be fair, they did burn 98 percent of my family – men, women and children – alive. So, I was a little angry.”

“So angry that you killed your niece and took her alpha power,” Malia retorted.

Peter was quiet. Malia swallowed, realizing she may have gone too far. (There was that tact thing Stiles was always talking about.) She tensed. Her time in the woods had taught her a thing or two about poking bears.

But Peter didn't move. He didn't lunge for her. He looked almost sad as he traced a spiral into the crumbs on his plate.

“That was regrettable,” he said. Malia was silent. “I didn't escape the fire unscathed. I was burned over,” he gulped. “I was burned a lot. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I could barely think for the pain as my cells took years to heal. The first thing to come back was that animal instinct. We all have it. It's the wolf – or the coyote – inside. It was even more restless than I was, and it came back before I could even hope to control it. Laura just happened to get caught in the crossfire.”

Malia was silent for a moment. Unsure of what to say or do. The liquid in her cup had chilled to a far less pleasant temperature. Finally she spoke.

“When I was in the woods – the first couple days after the accident – I didn't know what to do, so I just wandered around. By the time I made my way to the mouth of a trail, I was so hungry. A girl my age was there, having a picnic with her mom. I could smell chocolate chip cookies and...what are they called? Those little cheese crackers shaped like fish?”

“Goldfish.”

“Yeah. Goldfish. I called out to them. I tried so hard to say 'Hey, kid over here! I'm hungry, too!' but they couldn't understand me. I couldn't make the words, and when the mom saw me, she was afraid. You know fear has a smell?”

“Yes, it's...acrid.” Malia would have to look that word up later.

“It overpowered everything as she picked up her daughter and got in their car. She started to drive away. I tried to turn back. To make them see that I was like them, and when that didn't work, I tried to wake up – it had to all be a dream -- but nothing happened. I was just stuck. Trapped.”

Peter was silent again. Just when Malia was starting to feel like the story she thought would be so relatable really sound ed like the ramblings of a dumb kid, he spoke.

“So what did you do?”

“Caught a rabbit; ate that instead.” 

The words tumbled out of her mouth like nothing. It was the god's honest truth, after all. But as soon as they left, a feeling of shame washed over her. Not only was it the sort of comment that would have her friends shrinking back in horror for the poor little bunny, she realized belatedly that Peter probably was talking about the grand scheme of things, not her younger self's  immediate  lack of  lunch . She waited for the look or the comment that would tell her she'd said something wrong again.

“Smart,” Peter said. “Adaptive.” She searched his voice and his eyes for traces of sarcasm, but either it wasn't there or she couldn't detect it. Either was a possibility, but she focused on the nicer one, and it made her heart soar just a little. 

Nobody called her smart these days. Nobody would ever call her stupid, but half the people she encountered expected her to be able to step back into the life of a normal 16-year-old high schooler, and the other half still expected her to be an 8-year-old masquerading as a teenager.

The first group – most of her friends, she realized – were disappointed, sometimes exasperated, by her lack of social skills and book smarts. And the second group: It took a while to identify the scent, but soon she realized it was pity. Pity for the little girl who only thought she was a young woman.

Peter didn't seem to do either of those. He just accepted her for what she was, and that made her smile. And when she smiled, he smiled, and th at was the same, too .

Ed Tate was a nice man, but after eight years she barely knew him more than she knew Peter.  Maybe it was the coyote, but she couldn't help now but feel a sense of kinship for Peter that she didn't have for Ed. She liked Ed. Maybe even loved him, and was certainly relieved to fall into his arms with the sheriff's jacket wrapped around her body. But he wasn't her father. Her world was one he would never understand.

“Why do we have blue eyes?” she asked. “Is it because we were born this way?”

“No,” Peter answered. “It's...it's complicated.”

Malia didn't understand. She was about to ask another question when she caught a scent. A second later, there was furious pounding on the door to the loft.”

“MALIA! *pound pound pound* MALIA! ARE YOU IN THERE?!!”

Malia glanced from the door back to Peter. He looked irritated. Annoyed by the interruption. 

“Stiles.” His lips curled up at the word as he rounded the island and stalked toward the door.


	4. Things A Father Knows

Stilinski peered through the bedroom door. He'd gotten good at  quietly  checking in on his son over the past few months. It was a silence born from necessity, as he didn't want to wake Stiles during those rare moments of actual sleep.

They never lasted long. Nightmares would come  and leave him screaming bloody murder. The first few times it happened, Stilinski felt like he had fallen through a hole in time. Stiles yelled, Stilinski's eye popped open, and it was as if it were 17 years earlier and he was a new father, certain that every scream of his baby was brought on by robbers, kidnappers or worse.

He was almost always back to reality before hitting his own bedroom door, but even in reality, his son was still screaming. He'd become pretty sure at one point that, if the high school track were measured by the distance from his room to Stiles' room, Stilinski would have broken not only his personal best – set in the 1985 state championships – but the best of every kid running today.

And he always wished it could be faster. That it would take less time to burst through  the door, wrap Stiles in arms and whisper calming words until he woke up, sobbing.

He didn't understand, at first. No one did, really. And when he put all of Stiles' symptoms together and came up with the same disease that took Claudia from him, he wanted to cry. When Melissa put two and two together, he did. The thought then of losing his son was unbearable. He didn't know how Chris Argent managed, and he couldn't imagine how it felt now, being confronted by her – or at least someone who looked like her – all over again, tearing at a barely scabbed wound.

And when they told him that Stiles wasn't sick. Not with dementia at any rate, a part of him felt glad. He didn't know what a Nogitsune was. He didn't know if the wealth of supernaturally inclined individuals in Beacon Hills knew how to help him, and in an odd way, it was all a comfort.

Because if the Nogitsune wasn't an illness, but instead was some sort of demon fox spirit thing fighting to take of his son, he couldn't think of anyone who would fight harder to keep his sanity than Stiles Stilinski. And for everything he didn't know about the supernatural, he had to believe a way to save him was one of them.

And Stiles had come through. He survived everything. But it wasn't pain free. The guilt and the sorrow weighed on him. The lives the Nogitsune had taken felt like they were done by his own hand, because – in a weird, twisted way – they sort of were. Nobody blamed Stiles for those deaths. Except for Stiles.

For weeks after, Stiles would still wake up in the middle of the night. He didn't scream in terror, but he cried whimpering tears of anguish. Stilinski no longer came charging into the room, but he still came. He still sat down on the edge of the bed and held Stiles in his arms while the boy clutched at the sleeves of his father's T-shirt, spilling hot tears onto his chest until there was nothing left. 

A girl had changed all that. Well, technically a werecoyote, but still a girl. She made Stiles smile again. Made him laugh. Stilinski knew when she would come around. For all her supernatural abilities, stealthiness wasn't one of them. 

But something had changed. He silently watched Stiles sit at his desk, staring at nothing. His fingers – usually tapping some random beat or twirling pencils – sat motionless. This wasn't terror or or guilt or grief.

It was heartbreak. And Stilinski knew a little bit about that.


	5. In for a Penny, In for a Pound

Stiles was staring at nothing when he heard a knock on his bedroom door. He wheeled around in his desk chair and saw his father, wearing his sheriff's uniform and a sad expression. In a weird way, Stiles was grateful. He didn't think he could deal with happy people right now.

“Brought you something,” his father said, taking a few steps into the room. In his outstretched hand was a glass of warm milk. Stiles didn't have to inspect it to know that it was sweetened with a touch of honey and half a cinnamon stick. It was his mother's recipe, and one of the few things that brought him comfort in the weeks after her death.

Stiles accepted the drink and let the heat from the glass warm his cold hands a moment before setting it down on the desk.

“Stiles, I don't want to push, but if you want to talk-”

“Yeah, I know, Dad,” he said as he swiveled back around, turning his back and gazing out the window. He could feel the sheriff's eyes on him for a moment and then heard the slight creak of floorboards as he walked away. Stiles took a sip of the drink. It was perfect.

It hadn't always been. The first time he made it there was too much honey and powdered cinnamon turned it into a thick, gritty mess. But he hadn't given up. And now it was perfect.

“Hey, Dad...”

“Yeah?” His father's head popped back into view, as if he'd bee waiting just out of sight, knowing that Stiles would call for him.

“I made a huge mistake.” The words came out shakier than he had intended – as if speaking them aloud caused his lips to tremble. “I did the exact opposite of what I meant to do...I just pushed her closer and now...” He knew he was rambling. He knew that 'her' and 'him' would mean nothing to his father, but he couldn't focus. Couldn't find the right words. He was an inch from breaking down entirely when Stilinski stepped into the room, sat down on the bed and hooked his foot around the base of Stiles' desk chair, wheeling him closer.

“What happened?” he asked. One hand landed comfortingly on Stiles' shoulder, and the sheriff ducked his head to look his son in the eye. “Just start from the beginning.”

Some of the story, he already knew, but Stiles recapped anyway. Assassins. Dead pools. Cyphers. Malia's name on the list. As Malia Hale.

“Malia's a Hale?”

Stiles nodded.

“Yeah. She's Peter's daughter.”

“How do you know?”

Stiles opened his mouth and shut it again.

“It's going to sound crazy,” he said. “I mean really crazy.” When he met no resistance, he continued. “Lydia heard it in the claws of Derek's dead mom.”

For a moment Stilinski just stared at him. Opened his mouth to speak. Shut it. Took a deep breath before closing his eyes and rubbing at his temples.

“Okay,” he finally said. “What else?”

“ 'Okay'?” Stiles said. “That's it?”

“Stiles, if I tried to come up with rational explanations for any of this, I'd drive myself crazy,” he said. “Once you start talking werewolves and kanimas, it's pretty much in for a penny, in for a pound. So what else?”

Stiles nodded. There was no going back now.

“I didn't tell her about Peter. About being his kid, that is. You know Peter! He's crazy! And she found out. She found out that I knew, and I didn't tell her, and she ran right to him. She won't even talk to me.”

Stiles had been trying to get the encounter at the loft out of his mind since he got home. It wouldn't leave, and talking through all the other stuff had been remarkably freeing. So. In for a penny, in for a pound.

He told Stilinski all about that afternoon. Banging on the loft door, demanding to see Malia. And when he finally did, trying to drag her out. Trying to make her see reason.

“ _Peter Hale killed a bunch of people!”_

“ _Yeah, murderers. Give me a second to wipe the tears away.”_

“ _Malia-”_

“ _STILES! You lied to me. Or you hid things from me...You weren't honest. And I trusted you.”_

“ _If you'd just listen to me-”_

She had turned to walk away when Stiles grabbed her wrist. She turned with a growl and grabbed at his forearm. Her claws extended, but she kept her fingers flat against his skin. Her eyes glowed, and he could see her fangs as she snarled at him.

“ _Don't you touch me.”_

She said the words slowly and deliberately – almost calmly, as if allowing any more anger to seep through would sap the last of her self control and she just might claw his face off. And behind her, Peter smirked.

“ _Would you just look at him!”_ Stiles had pointed with his free hand to Peter, who stepped past Malia, removed her hand from Stiles' arm and manhandled him toward the door.

“ _I think it's time for you to leave, Stiles,”_ Peter said as he opened the door and roughly shoved Stiles back into the hallway. _“Before we all lose our tempers.”_

His eyes burned blue and he glowered dangerously at Stiles before pulling back, giving a cocky shrug and that smirk again as he told Stiles to run along back to Daddy. But he was plotting. More than that, he was _scheming_. Stiles could tell, and not knowing what he was planning - not knowing how he would use Malia -- was terrifying.

And underneath all that, he just wanted Malia to talk to him again.

"What do I do?" he asked his father. Stilinski was silent for a moment before speaking.

"Well, you could start with an apology."

"The florist is closed."

"Flowers aren't an apology, Stiles," his dad answered. "Believe me, I know. You're going to have to go to her and actually apologize-"

"But she won't talk to me!"

"Then that's the way it is, for a while," Stiliniski said. "Because whether you think you did anything wrong or not, Malia feels wronged."

"But PETER-"

"Is apparently her father," Stilinski interrupted. "And I'm going to tell you something, Stiles. I don't know if it will help, but it's the truth." He paused for a second, collecting his thoughts. Stiles could tell he was about to drop a knowledge bomb and braced himself for the impact of words that would tell him everything he knew was wrong. What he got was a little different.

"Stiles, you're the best part of my life," Stilinski said. "You -- and your mom -- you changed me for the better. And maybe it will be the same for Peter."

"You really believe that?"

"Stiles, these days, I don't know what to believe," he said. "So I settle on hope."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was always my goal to get this chapter out before the most recent episode. I was cutting it super close and was horribly distracted by some news. So please forgive any errors. If they're here (or it's just bad) I'll fix it. (Also, does anyone have advice for how to handle mentions of Stiles' dad when the tense is third-person limited? Stilinski and the sheriff seemed out of place, but "Stiles' dad" can only go so far.)


	6. Alpha Problems

Scott woke with a start. It was the third nightmare in as many days since Kira had "killed" him and used his fake death as unsuccessful bait for the benefactor.  And each time, he woke up still smelling Liam's blood. Feeling it slide beneath his nails and drip down his arms. But worst of all was the taste. He could taste his beta's blood, and it wasn't bitter and metalic like the first time he had clamped down on Liam's forearm to stop him falling as he dangled from a roof. It was sweet. Intoxicating.  
  
In his first dream, the mute had been there. Watching him. Coaching him, almost, as he tore Liam to shreds. After that, it was Deucalion. Where the mute had tried to advise him -- teach him the inevitability of having to kill -- Deucalion egged him on. Taunted him with more power than he could imagine.  
  
"I have everything I need," Dream Scott said in a moment of clarity.  
  
"Not to stop what's coming for you. For your friends and your town," Deucalion answered. His voice flowed like silk through the air.  
  
"If killing Liam is what it takes to get that power, then I don't want it."  
  
Deucalion looked at him. Shook his head sympathetically.  
  
"Oh, Scott. Believe me, you will."  
  
It was on those words that Scott awoke.  
  
"You will."  
  
He'd heard that before. After he told Derek the bite was a gift he didn't want. That night, not long ago at all, felt like it was years away. And ultimately, Derek had been right.  
  
The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. It was four minutes after six, which was earlier than Scott would have liked, but not so early that he cared much as he got out of bed, tried to scrub away the dream's remnants in the shower and tiptoed out the door, careful not to wake his father asleep on the couch.  
  
He pushed his bike halfway down the block before starting it and roaring off to Derek's loft. It was 6:30 when he pounded on the door. Loudly. Repeatedly. It was 6:31 when Derek opened it with a scowl that honestly should have been familiar to Scott.  
  
But Scott took a step back. His brow knitted together in confusion.  
  
"What's wrong with you?" he asked. Derek was different.  
  
"Well, I was woken up at 6:30 in the morning. Other than that..."  
  
"No, you...you don't sm-"  
  
"Scott. I'm fine. Are you okay?"  
  
It had been a while since anyone had asked that. Anyone who knew what was what, at least. Like maybe people though having alpha power meant you could automagically overcome everything. And being asked so blatantly if he was okay pushed why he had come to the forefront of his mind. He'd come back to Derek's new scent later, when he seemed more inclined to talk about it.  
  
Because Scott was pretty sure he was about to dump enough uncomfortable conversation onto Derek's plate to last the rest of the week.  
  
"I need to ask you about Deucalion," Scott said. "And Boyd."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about Allison. I need to get through this conversation with Derek next, and I think she'll be up after that.


End file.
